Anna
'vanished', while I resumed my seat after putting out the brass rivet
wires and that one file I used for 'finishing off' the rivets, as
well as the washers and punches I would need for the handle's
rivet-wires. My 'riveting' hammer, I laid out, all of this in order,
then as I went back to the table to resume drawing, I saw an
obvious-looking bag.

“That string,” I muttered.
“Rachel needs both a sample, and then a drawing, and finally, a
description of just what we found there.”

“I can describe that stuff,” said
Sarah. “Bring a few spools, and I can speak of it to some degree.”

However, I recalled what I had heard
as I brought out several spools, including one that I had no idea nor
even dream of, as no one had spoken of it. This spool was
sizable, as it contained what
looked like a thick species of braided twine.
I then looked at the spool's label
and screeched like a mashed rat.

Sarah left her
pot-stirring and came at a run, then looked at what I was pointing at
on the label. My finger – indeed, my whole hand – shook as if it
were about to endure a localized convulsion.

“What does that
mean?” she asked, pointing at what the label said. “I've seen
such words before on tapestries, but the Gustaaf speaks of them being
words used prior to the war, and that only.”

“Th-three
millimeter l-line,” I said. “About eight lines, give or take
one, if I gage this stuff's diameter by looking at it.” A pause,
then, “that was not what made me screech, dear.”

“What did,
then?” said Sarah.

“Th-this stuff
has a five h-hun-hundred kilogram working strength, and it
breaks at several times that figure,” I screeched. Again, I
sounded like a mashed rat – a mashed rat in the grip of a severe
convulsion. I then pulled out another spool, this also a species of
twine, only it looked closer to what was called 'fishing string',
then a spool of that dark 'twine' we had seen before used as
'heavy-duty thread' by those plotting 'escape from a species of
too-real hell'. That was the first material that was not braided,
and Sarah tried to read its label.

“This is what
they did much of their sewing with,” said Sarah. “Now that
figure” – here, she pointed – “is a large one, as it says
three followed by three naughts, and finding numbers of that nature
is not at all common, even those in books and classes at the west
school.”

“Even their
mathematics classes?” I asked. I'd handled larger numbers
in the third grade.

Sarah sadly
nodded, then said, “even that named geometry does not deal with
larger numbers, and much of what they teach is that type of
figuring needed for mapping out regions.” A pause, then, “I
think they go much further in instrument-making
apprenticeships, but how just far they go is something few
know and fewer-yet speak of.”

“The Heinrich
works,” I said. “Do they bother...”

“I am not sure,
as those who apprentice instrument-makers tend to be as close-mouthed
as witches about such matters,” said Sarah, “almost as if
mathematics beyond what is taught at the west school is something so
dangerous that it is like chanting bad rune-curses and
stroking fetishes made long ago by strong witches.”

“Given that many
instrument-makers learn more about what you just said rather than
'real math', that's only too true,” said the soft voice. “The
ones who do teach 'real math' are all marked, and they only
teach their full knowledge to other marked people, as those
who are otherwise tend to either turn witch while being instructed,
or quit the entire business early and then turn witch.”

“Math makes
people turn witch here?” I gasped.

“Recall what Tam
said about how people who turn witch need to learn nearly everything
in life all over again, and then how those in the Rooster
Totem speak of those who turn witch?” asked the soft voice
pointedly. “One of the chief regions of
deliberately-fostered ignorance is mathematics, as firstly, that
capacity is greatly needed to progress beyond what the fourth kingdom
currently manages for most of its home-produced products, and
secondly...”

Here, a pause, one
of pregnant-mother-rat proportions. I was thinking of a large
mother rat, one most bulgy and irritable beyond belief – as this
one was like 'Big Mama' for color, and in another league for
attitude, such that it made 'Big Mama' at her very worst –
like when she bit my eyelid – seem tame and pleasant.

“One of the
chief faculties that is lost when a person thinks like a witch
enough to make such a life look even slightly attractive is
the capacity to deal with math beyond what you were taught
during what would be thought of here as one's third term in the lower
schools.”

“What?”
I squeaked.

“Witches can
add, subtract, multiply, and divide, provided the numbers involved
are not too large,” said the soft voice, “and the 'smarter' ones
– when they're sober – have trouble doing 'long
division', like you showed Anna that one time.” A pause, then, “by
the way, were you to teach her math now, she'd pick it up much
more readily, and be a far more attentive student in the bargain –
and that for all subjects.”

“She would not
be your only student,” said Sarah archly. “I would do so also,
and I've read those books downstairs that speak of the subject as I
have had time.” A pause, then, “back to stirring for a few turns
of the spoon, then I must flip the glass and draw things as I can,
and then we must open several of those boxes that once had rockets in
them.” Another pause, then, “perhaps cut some of that stuff on
those spools there to show Rachel, as that may well be quicker than
drawing it.”

I brought out my
knife, and began to cut a foot-long piece of the thickest material.
Not only did I have to work at cutting it, but the material
proved so obdurate that only a minute's careful work with the
knife sufficed to sever a piece of the 'rope', and in the process, I
wondered if I had dulled the edge of the knife. I then thought, “I
didn't pray for that one, did I?”

I did just then,
my hand holding the knife as I did so – and the sense of
'submersion' happened so fast that I had no idea of
just where I was but a 'second' later beyond 'I am not sitting
in a chair any more – and this is not Roos, either'.”

It was an
acutely dangerous place, this house that I now was 'roosting' in; I
could tell that. More, it smelled most strongly of mingled wax; also
of a most-peculiar species of labor, this patient, slow, 'stupid' and
very well hidden; and as I 'floated' along a long, dusty, and
most of all dark corridor while yet standing – I was not
walking; I could tell that much – I could tell that whoever lived
here was so expert at hiding their true nature
that when I 'fled' back to land once more upon my chair with a knife
buried in smoke-billowing snow to my left and the spools
sitting in front of me on the table, I gasped, “where did I
just go?”

“You were here
all the time, and you turned loose of that knife just before it
became covered with snow,” said Sarah – who then sniffed. “I
recognize that smell, though, so I can tell you traveled in
some fashion.”

“Smell?” I
asked.

“Yes, that
smell,” said Sarah. “If that smell is not that of where
my cousin lives, then I am a quoll just out of its nest, and I need
to learn when it is night so I can sleep, yawn.” A pause, then, “I
am beginning to wonder as to why I am up so late, in fact,
beyond...”

“You used to do
this all the time at school, didn't you,” I said, “but up here,
no one stays up this late unless they're certain kinds of
people – I mean 'people like us, who often need to work late
hours' – or they're fairly serious witches.”

As if to punctuate
matters, I heard two gunshots followed by a chorus of screams. These
screams died out over a course of several seconds as those screaming
– at least three individuals had been screaming – were each
methodically 'silenced' in their turn.

“Tam
shot another pack of witches,” said Sarah. “Now what else did he
do?”

“Probably 'cut
them off' with his knife,” I said. “Maybe he wants one of
those special ear-cleaning awls like I did up for, uh,
testing.”

“You what?”
asked Sarah. “You... I'd like to see this awl, if I might,
as it needs drawing so as to show Rachel.” A pause, then,
“I've drawn enough other things that they need rubbing.”

I reached into my
possible bag, and from its 'hidden' added-on pocket I had spent a
short time riveting on once the thing was done weeks ago, I drew
forth the awl in question. I wondered why Sarah had asked about it,
until I recalled just how much had happened thus far in the last few
days. I had trouble recalling much of what had
happened myself, in fact – it had all become a whirlwind
filled with dust and a smoke-smudged blur, with explosions and
gunfire and curses and a big nasty worm and a dragoon that made
anything I'd ever read about look like 'no trouble at all' to
deal with. That included anything of an animal nature found in
Africa – Cape Buffalo included – and large dangerous
bears; none of those animals were that smart or that tough, and none
of them had 'armor plate' for a hide – and 'armored battle cars'
generally didn't need to be rotting in a compost pile before
they quit.

I still was in no
hurry to encounter what used to pass for a horrible bear here.
A five-ton bear with the capacity to imitate a flamethrower and a
metabolism that demanded it eat nearly its own weight of meat each
day did not sound amusing to encounter, and the same could be said
for a three-thousand ton 'mobile fortress' with four 'man-wide'
spiked tracks and a multiplicity of witch-populated gun
turrets. Still, I had an answer for Sarah.

“Jael,” I
said. “Sisera. Jael used a tent peg to, uh, 'peg him out' in that
portion of the book titled 'De werken Pruefeer', and Lukas' talk of
cleaning ears down in the fifth kingdom house proper made for me
making this thing – and then Sepp spoke of it being
the size of a tent peg when I showed it to him.” This last portion
was mumbled.

“They know
about that phrase across the sea,” said the soft voice. “It was
a commonplace wartime euphemism that spoke of either being
killed or killing the enemy, and it's still spoken today in the dark
places.”

“'Take him
out'?” I asked.

“That phrase
wasn't nearly as commonplace, even if a lot of soldiers on that side
spoke of doing so to the witches,” said the soft voice. “The
phrase 'pegging out' was a lot more common.” A pause, then,
“a 'shiv' like that one there would have been 'most-coveted'
then, and it would be highly prized today overseas.”

“And here,
also,” said Sarah. “You showed that thing to Sepp, didn't you?
My memory is not its usual, if you speak of the last few days.”

“I did,” I
said, as I slipped my 'death-awl' back in its well-hid sheath. “It
was a real chore to drive these rivets” – I pointed to their
outer portions, complete with the brass washers as I spoke of
them – “as the bag was put together then, and I needed this awl
ready to hand in case its rapid use proved required.” A pause,
then, “it almost makes sense to make another one of these
bags using the ideas that have accumulated since I made this one
originally – one with a lot more inside pockets and
dividers, including at least one fitted pocket for pistols as
well as some to hold knives and awls.”

“I'd use
properly-tanned and treated leather to make its replacement,
also,” said the soft voice. “You should be able to get some good
leather tomorrow, as you're not the only person who knows about
ignorant tanners and how they're too-often inclined toward the ways
and thinking of witches – and they can treat it overseas.”

“Yes, and I know
who that is with the good leather, too,” said Hans, as he brought
up a pair of tin plates, these with all of the pieces of a knife on
each one. They were in a most-definite order, which I found
gratifying to see. “There are three more of these things in that
oven now, as Anna figured out how to stack them easy in there.”

“Three
more?” I asked.

“I have to shave
some more pieces of wood yet, but I...” Here, Hans counted on his
fingers after setting the plates down on the table nearer my
workbench, then said, “five more pieces, I think. Anna has all of
the blades blacked up, so she is cleaning up that mess, and then...”
Hans looked over at the stove, stirred it, added a bit more wax
after shaving it up with his knife, then smelled the slow-cooking
'pot'.

“This stuff is
for tools, is it not?” he asked. “If it is, I think I might want
some, as if it gets hot and damp up here this summer, tools
will be bad for rusting.”

“It may be good
for tools, but getting enough wax for...” Sarah looked at me, then
shook her head. “They have lots of wax overseas, so they
should manage plenty of proper rust-preventer.”

“Yes, and I hope
to get that spokeshave done proper too, with all of its blades done
the same so that there is a full set of those things,” said Hans –
who obviously meant 'like you have'. “I might not be much
of a carpenter, but it seems if you have good tools and a bit
of patience, then you can do a lot more than I thought someone
like me could do.”

“Such as, uh,
glue-removal for when the chairs go wobbly, then cleaning the old
finish off of the rest of such chairs?” I asked. “Perhaps
getting some of the lead out of this table?”

“That I might
and might not have time to do, as we only have the one table,” said
Hans. “We have several stools, and the same for chairs now, so if
one of them is missing a week, it will cause but little trouble, but
the table wants doing quick enough that we are not eating at the
Public House for weeks, and it would take me weeks at the
least, what with all the other things I need to do right now.”

I stood
open-mouthed in shock at what Hans had just said, as he was
right: the degree of woodworking he had spoken of initially was
practical for amateurs, given decent to 'good' tools; while critical
work, or work that needed doing quickly, wanted people who did
such work for a living – people who had the time, the talent, the
dedicated-to-woodworking-space, the experience, and the tools
needed to bring such work to a successful conclusion in a
'reasonable' amount of time.

“'Reasonable'
probably varies a lot, save for things that get used all the time,”
I thought. “That stuff cannot wait.”

“It usually
waits longer than is good just the same,” said the soft voice, “and
Hans understated the case regarding good tools.”

“Most carpenters
are not like those in town, much less those at the house proper,”
said Sarah. “Hans, can you look at this? I'm not sure I have it
right.”

I needed no
further interjection: I went to work on the knives, and within
perhaps a minute, I was 'driving' rivets, first into the hilt of each
knife. The noise of the hammer peening the annealed brass wire,
while very quiet as hammering went, was rapid enough that
Sarah squeaked, “ooh, that n-noise. It makes me see lightning
to hear it.”

“Sorry, dear,”
I said, as I began to put the scales on the first knife. The
rivet-holes lined up perfectly, the pins went in with washers on top
and bottom, the 'bottom' punch on the lower side lay in the
normally-plugged hole of the jeweler's anvil, and the other punch for
the top, then eight sharp raps with a riveting hammer – these
rapid-fire, so rapid that they merged into a short 'burp' – and the
business for that rivet was done.

“He drives those
things like one of those guns that spray bird-whistles out of their
bottoms and breathe white fire from their fronts,” said Hans
quietly. “Now this part here is taller...”

I was onto the
next rivet for the handle, this also having its washers; and again,
eight sharp raps and the rivet was set. The third, fourth, and fifth
handle-rivets went nearly as quickly; and that knife was done.

The second knife
went even faster than the first, and when I presented Hans with two
'ready to dip' knives on top of the stacked tin plates, he goggled
for an instant – then resumed advising Sarah on what she was
drawing for a minute or so before rushing downstairs with the knives
and the plates they had come upstairs upon.

“He'll be back
up before long,” said Sarah. “I told him he needed to watch that
thermometer and move those wood-pieces around frequently, as that
type of an oven needs special arranging to heat what is inside it
evenly.”

“As in most
bake-ovens have 'hot' and 'cool' places?” I asked.

“Yes, unless
they've been worked on specially,” said Sarah as she brought over
her ledger. I began 'rubbing' the pages she'd done thus far, those
being those 'common' grenades, among other things she had worked on.
I'd made surprising progress on drawing the knives as well prior to
working on the knives Hans had brought up, and had the sharpening
stones we'd found next in line for 'tracing'. “Many of the larger
fourth kingdom ovens either have a number of separate fireboxes, or
they have this arrangement of metal bars which is rotated by a small
damp-motor...”

“Are those the
ones that have, uh, carts in them?” I said. “A door at one end,
another at the other end, a long firebrick 'tunnel', and
perhaps three or four fireboxes, each one of which is stoked slowly
with well-burnt coal and all of those fireboxes tended carefully by a
'fireman'?”

“I think there
might be three bakeries that I know of that do that much
bread,” said Sarah, “and one of them is not two miles north of
the west school.” A pause, then, “most places have ovens like
the house proper does, and they either spend years getting their
ovens right, or they are most careful which parts they use and how
they put their loaves in those things, and the same for their fires
and all.”

“No, uh, 'build
the fire in the oven itself, burn it so it is hot to the touch on the
outside, and then rake out the ashes and stuff' before putting
bread or whatever needs baking inside it?” I asked. I had heard of
that being done, at least in some places. It was historical
where I came from; I knew that much.

“That is common
in the third kingdom's back-country,” said Sarah, “where a number
of families group themselves together to make their bread, and their
ovens are large enough to crawl into.” A pause, then, “once they
had to drive a hen-grabber out of an oven and rake it carefully
before it could be used.”

“Hen-grabber?”
I asked. I was rubbing the knife-drawing I had just done, and the
thing changed so drastically over the course of perhaps a second that
I nearly fainted: isometric format, with multiple views; shading,
this in multiple colors; proper perspective; clear neat lettering –
and the whole inked in several different colors, all of which dried
with a flash of bluish-white to give a finished drawing.

“It was shot,”
said Sarah, “and they put wood to it right away, as those things
are thought to be the pets of witches in the third kingdom's
back-country.” Pause, then, “and the two people with guns set to
cleaning those things while they were still warm, and they were at
that business until the bread was cooked and ready for eating.”

“Slow?” I
asked.

“Those people?”
asked Sarah. “I think not!”

“Then why s-so
long?” I asked.

“First, they
have to make trips of some days to have their guns worked on, as the
only place where that happens in the third kingdom is in one
place at that port,” said Sarah. “Then, they have nowhere near
enough money to have that done there, even if they save their
coins for a ten-year, and finally, that entire 'town' had just the
two guns.”

“And no tools?”
I asked. I was now drawing one of the sharpening stones we'd found,
noting as I did their coming in sets and what they needed to be
treated with regularly to prevent loading up.

“As good as
yours, no,” said Sarah. “They mostly have what they have for
tools from escaped Veldters, and they keep what they have
well-greased and hidden save when they must use them, same as
with their guns, and they clean those things with distillate
regularly.”

“It may smell,
but it does not smell much,” said Sarah. “I think they
set out common heavy distillate for a week at a time with daily
stirring, do so multiple times with a time of jugging between each
such time, and then filter the remaining liquid through cloth and
charcoal into vials like medicine vials.” A pause, then, “the
tinkers passing through their towns actually buy what they do
that way, which is how they get many of those things they need which
need purchasing.”

“Yes, so what is
your trouble?” asked Hans. He'd suddenly showed with two more
knives that needed riveting. “Is this about how to get distillate
so it does not smell much without distilling it?”

“T-they do that
in the third kingdom, they would not tell me where or how they did
so, and now I know,” said Sarah. “It does not get that hot up
here, save during the hottest part of High Summer, but if one puts a
pot that is darkened by much cooking out where the stuff is in the
sun all day, and keeps it upwind of any fires, then...”

“So that
is what they do,” said Hans. “I always wondered how that place
had distillate with barely any smell, and why they used it so seldom,
and now I have the rest of my answer.” A pause, then, “they may
not have much to sell there, but they do make distillate that
barely has any smell to it, and that stuff is something that many
want, so they sell that.”

“Not true boiled
distillate, but most of its inflammable tendencies are reduced enough
to make the stuff passable for cleaning and rust-prevention.” I
paused, then, “so they boil out their guns after pulling them to
bits using proper tools, that for both locks and
barrels, wipe them down carefully with clean rags, then wipe the
parts off with that stuff mixed with a little fourth kingdom grease
they get from a passing tinker – and then they can keep what guns
they have from rusting in that place.” Another pause, then, “those
things are probably older than time.”

“Yes, that is
so,” said Hans. “Most third kingdom guns are, and they take care
of those things better than most places north, and a lot of places to
the south, too.”

“In the back
country?” I asked.

“If you see a
gun in that place, you can be certain it is an old one, and more
certain yet that whoever has it is either rich for that place, or...”

“There are
entire towns that pool their money to purchase and maintain
those things, Hans,” said Sarah. “That is the only way
they can have them, and outside of a few things, the only common way
those people get enough money to buy muskets, powder, and lead is by
buying commonplace distillate and letting it air out for a while like
they do using old copper pots.”

“Oh, not just
any old copper pots,” I said, as I rubbed my drawing I had just
completed. I was learning the 'tricks' to this method: sketch it out
minimally, then rub some, then add any 'missing' details, and
rub well. That process gave the best possible result with minimal
time. “They use 'baking pans', but half an inch of distillate in
each one, stirring daily for at least a minute with an old brass
spoon with holes punched in it, and then the pans are up on the roof
of a brick shed well clear of any flames.” A pause, then, “they
might take a month to 'cook' a jug that way, but short of what we and
some people in the fourth kingdom do, that's about the best
'well-dried' distillate to be had.” A pause, then, “and I hope
to get a real distillate-still going soon after we get back
from that trip, as we will need it.”

As I took the
knives over to drive their rivets, Hans came with me, and as I did my
quick tapping with the hammer, he spoke of how Anna was constantly
checking his work, even when he used the gages to check what he did.

“How often do
you check those wood pieces?” I asked.

“About every few
strokes of that spokeshave,” said Hans. “It makes a lot of dust,
it is set so fine, so I can get them real close, or so I think until
she checks them.” A pause, then, “she has never been so picky,
no, not ever.”

“Life and
death,” I said. “It wasn't just losing a toe, Hans – she had
to use one of these things today, and she had to...”

“Having that
knife saved her life,” said the soft voice. “Had Hans had the
same thing happen, he'd be a lot pickier than he is also.”
A pause, then, “by the way, it isn't just the life of those using
them she's speaking of. It's her life also, as in 'she's
being held responsible for the outcome', and hence she's utterly
serious about the matter.”

“As if He
was speaking about her life hanging in the balance,” I murmured.
“Now do you have an idea as to why I work as hard as I
do?”

“Y-yes,” said
Hans. “I might not know much, but after seeing her be that way, I
know it is not just you.”

“Or Tam,” said
Sarah. “Or Esther. Or my cousin – or, sometimes, me.” A
pause, then, “I'm not sure about Andreas, as he seems to hide that
portion better than almost anyone I've ever seen.”

“That is what
you must do when there are lots of Generals around,” said Hans.
“If you cannot hide yourself good, then you must hide what you are
like good, or...”

“Or you kill
every stinking one of those witches when and where you encounter
them, and then raze their haunts to the ground with the survivors
aflame inside them,” I spat. “No mercy, no relent, and no tears
– and after doing that stinking dragoon, there's no more
retreating, either.”

“I know,” said
Sarah. “That lizard did something to me, too, but I think it
wasn't close to what it did to you.” A pause, then,
“Hans, now check this. I did what you told me to – I think.”

I gave Hans back
the two finished knives a few moments later, and as I returned to the
table to resume drawing, I noted that my knife was no longer present.

“I put that
thing over on the counter in a pot where it can melt its snow without
warping the table's wood,” said Sarah, “and that stuff is not
normal snow, but something out of an old tale, as it is smoking like
it's on fire, and no common snow I've seen does that.”

“Tongs?” I
asked. I hoped Sarah had picked up the 'snow-encrusted' knife with
something other than her hands, as she'd incur 'hot-cold' burns the
instant she touched it.

“Yes, some wood
ones,” said Sarah. “It left this strange scorch-mark on the
wood, and I hope that spot will come out when this thing gets
redone.” A sniff, then, “he's cooking that stuff. I can smell
it.”

“Dipping those
just-done knives, also,” said the soft voice. “He's cut that
'dip' with boiled distillate, as he's already 'sealed' the wood and
he thinks he only needs dipping and then wiping to give the wood a
'good' finish.”

“Anna told him
to do that, didn't she?” I asked.

“She did, and
she's making certain he's properly careful in what he does,” said
the soft voice. “Just you wait though – she's going to change
even more by tomorrow evening.”

“And her foot
will be nearly completely healed, also,” I said. “Now will this
have an effect upon what happens later?”

“It will,”
said the soft voice. “She'll survive it 'fine',” said the soft
voice. “Had she not lost her toe today, though – her survival
would be altogether unlikely, and that in spite of all that had been
done beforehand and all that you might be able to do to get her to
that help quickly.”

“Cooking the
knives, or both cooking the knives and heating the 'dip' some?” I
asked.

“I think...”
Sarah paused, then turned to see Anna coming up the stairs. She had
a small tinned copper plate, this with a number of new-molded candles
on it.

“I have that
mold figured out now,” she said, “or rather, molds, as I'm using
two of them. The one without a candle in it is setting in a
bucket of water and ice, so the candles set up faster, and when the
wick is in solid, I can undo the mold and pour another candle in the
other mold once I dry it well.”

“The wick?” I
asked.

“I gently touch
it,” said Anna. “With this wax, it can be solid-looking on the
surface, and yet still melted under it. It needs to be solid most of
the way through before one unlocks one of those molds, or else the
candle is too soft to hold its shape.” A pause, then, “and those
lanterns are touchy that way, more so than almost any such lantern
I've seen – either the lanterns themselves, or drawings I've seen
here and there.”

“Student's
lanterns are not that, uh, precise?” I asked.

“No,” said
Anna. “Those have tabs that one can bend, though it is unwise to
do that more than needed, but those you did have small cast-bronze
rings that need a most-precise shape and size to their
candles...” I stood up, then thought better of the matter and
wished the knife to be in my hand. To my complete astonishment, the
thing came up out of its pot, still encrusted with 'snow', then as it
flew slowly through the air, the snow 'boiled' off and smoking chunks
fell the entire distance until slowly, the knife's handle touched my
hand. It was now 'warm' to the touch, and I grasped it as I sat
down.

The whole kitchen
seemed to have become a world unlike anything I had seen or heard,
and while Anna seemed less surprised than myself, that did not stop
her from looking at what I was doing: cutting the pieces of thread
for samples, only now, I had a knife that not merely had an utterly
renewed edge, but an edge that was 'out of an old tale' for
functioning. The term 'monomolecular edge' came to me, and I brushed
it aside, for it was purely a matter of fiction, and what I was using
was entirely real in its nature.

Even that thick
cord, that which had taken work to cut through prior to the knife
being made 'different' in its entire nature, now parted as if it were
made of warm cheese spread. I then heard Anna speak upon what had
happened.

“You'll wish to
do that with those knives once you are done, and the same with the
rest of the surgical knives we have, as I can tell it makes much of
a difference in their working,” said Anna. “You'll need to take
at least one of those knives with you, you know.”

“We will?”
I asked.

“I think you
should take that one which is marked specially in the language of the
old-book,” said Anna. “That thing tingles every time I
should touch it, and I wonder if it is warning me off.”

Anna shook her
head, then ran for the stairs in a hurry that astonished me. I
suspected she was inclined to test what Sarah had spoken of, and the
screech downstairs that resulted had me wondering about rats showing
in the basement.

“Do rats get
down there?” I asked, as frantic steps charged back up the stairs.

“If they are bad
enough in here, they might,” said Sarah. “Usually, they tend to
be most numerous in the kitchen, as the food is there, and rats
desire food often, especially should they carrying young.”

“Gnaw
constantly,” I muttered as I sketched out another item.
“Tooth-grinding...”

“That would be a
mother rat,” said Sarah solemnly. “I have heard them do that
often.”

“You have?”
I asked. I was sketching still. This drawing was that of a 'metal
pear'.

“They are
most-common at the west school,” said Sarah – who then turned to
see Anna once more coming up the stairs at a near-run. She 'shot'
into the realm of the table, and spoke, her voice a near-breathless
whisper.

“It tingles much
less now,” she said, “and no, it is not warning me off.”

“Then what is it
doing?” asked Sarah. “Is it telling you that it is especially
good, or something similar?”

“More than that,
Sarah,” said Anna. “This thing does not like those small things
that cause infections, and if I look at it right, I can sometimes see
small flashes now and then.” Anna looked at it carefully, then
said, “and then, I could barely see the rainbow that the edge makes
before. Now I can see it easily, and that no matter when or where I
should be, or how good the light is.”

“That would mean
it is special,” said Sarah solemnly. “Now, if you should
handle one of the others like it, I think it might just mark itself
for you, what with your toe being gone.”

“Try it,” I
said. “It cannot hurt.” I then thought, “perhaps she needs to
pray over her tools regularly.”

“I think so!”
said Anna audibly, her voice just below a high-pitched yell. Her
voice had acquired an added dimension most-recently, and not just in
volume. Her voice was easily good for half an octave more, if one
spoke of 'top end'. “I'll do just that from now on.”

“Not just when
you use them,” I said. “I mean regularly, as in 'as often
as you can recall the need to do so'.”

“I know,” said
Anna. “You're the second person to tell me, so now I know
it's the truth.”

“Could one be
marked for her, then?” I thought.

The air seemed to
gather a charge of electricity, so much so that my hair seemed to
rise up from my head, and as the floor shook beneath my feet – or
was it shaking? I could not tell, even if the air seemed to
be 'loading up' as if lightning were about to strike; Anna carefully
sheathed the 'knife', laid it upon the table, then shot back down
into the basement. Her rapid movement seemed to cause fumes to come
up, these potent and 'strong', yet for some reason, they were not
sickening.

“Hans, best turn
down that lamp,” said Anna's voice clearly. “I need to look at
this stuff here.”

Faint speech, then
a sudden scream, this so dire and horrifying that I came to my feet,
then Hans yell: “come quick, the two of you. Anna has fallen to
the floor!”

The two of us left
our seats, and I made the stairs just ahead of Sarah. My bounding
progress had me reach the bottom landing in what seemed the blink of
an eye, and as I leaped around corners and seemed to flow to where
Hans was standing, I paused...

Turned as if
dreaming and waking at the same time...

And saw Anna,
laying prostrate, one of the knives in her hand, unconscious, with
the knife glowing an eerie electric blue, much as if it were made
entirely of lightning.

Glowing?
No, closer to hazed with snaking blue lightning-bolt lines of
'energy', and much the same for what else lay within the 'toolbox'
where she had previously kept much of her supplies – blueish mist,
mist crawling with power, tendrils of lightning seeming to shoot out
of it, a power that dared anyone not worthy to reach inside the box
and be turned into a cinder instantly. I knew that much: this
kind of capacity was not given lightly, and one had to live up to the
standard demanded so as to hold those things so empowered and not die
unmissed and unmourned upon the instant of judgment.

“Nadab and
Abihu,” I thought, as I then knew another matter, this of
astonishing certainty: she'd wish something – no, several such
containers – similar to what was currently being finished at the
house proper, as this wooden box, though well-made and cared for, was
now only fit for seldom-used tools – tools of a kind she might
use once in a while.

“More often than
you might think, at least in the future,” said the soft voice.
“Expect her to acquire her own tools, and that box to need
rollers and a metal stand for it in the not-too-distant future.” A
pause, then, “otherwise, you are right – it's no longer
genuinely suitable for medical use.”

“How is that?”
asked Hans, as I checked Anna's pulse. It was normal, as was her
breathing. I suspected that what had happened was spiritual in
origin, and Anna simply 'could not handle it'.

I'd had something
similar happen to me many years ago, and while I had not
become unconscious, I could not get up from the floor, I had
become so weak – until nearly half an hour had elapsed. I had seen
many people do much as Anna had done, however, and I wondered
if it were wise to touch her or ask her to wake up 'before it was
time'.

“Perhaps remove
the knife, so she isn't hurt when she comes to her senses,” I
thought, as I gently reached for it.

The
knife seemed to flow out of her hand and into mine, and when I
looked at it, I saw blazing Hebrew letters writ upon it – in what
seemed frozen electric-blue lightning – near where the blade proper
joined the 'handle'. The whole of the knife was still hazed
with faint-crackling 'lightning', even in my hands: hands that
had healed, and hands that had killed.

Like her
hands.

The letters were
not those writ upon my sword or on that one marked
knife like the one I was now holding, and when the letters subtly
shifted both shape and other matters into a form I that could read at
this time, I knew who was being referred to.

“It has her
name on it,” I murmured, the name meaning 'Anna' in Hebrew, or
'S'Channahh' as it might well be pronounced here. It
had a most-endearing sound, one at once 'lovely' and 'musical', even
as I once again heard it spoken softly within my mind. Hearing it
made for a request upon my part. “Now let this name, and its like
writ upon those other tools marked similarly, become permanent
and bound to her, such that these tools work as they should
for her and help her do that work entrusted to her.”

“Thank you,”
said Anna as she suddenly awoke, her voice seeming to come from a
realm entirely different than this one or any other of my
acquaintance – including those realms not on the 'physical' plane I
had 'seen' or had actually gone to. “I will speak with those who
work leather at the house proper tomorrow, as I will need more than
just the one bag they are making for me.”

“Several, each
of them with labels on them, to remind you of what they have inside,
perhaps?” I asked. I was wondering how hard it would be to
'color-code' them in some fashion beyond 'cast' labels done in that
strange gray-metal alloy. I could fit those later, once the
stuff became available and I was able to make the molds needed for
casting it.

“Yes, and they
will need to have my n-name on them,” said Anna. “That is the
usual, is it not, for overseas?”

“I've not been
there, so I cannot...” I paused, then, “I think so, actually,
though those people share their tools a lot as they don't have enough
to go around when a lot of people get hurt.”

“Hence they are
marked as to those who are responsible for their upkeep,”
said the soft voice. “They have some very strange ideas
about 'ownership' over there, so much so that you may find them a bit
peculiar.”

“The ones in
leadership, probably,” I muttered. “They probably think like a
pack of prewar witches – everything they see is theirs,
and theirs only.”

“No, not them,”
said the soft voice. “Think more like 'I don't own anything.
I use what I have been
entrusted with while I have it, as it's too precious and too scarce
to call it mine, and when I'm done with it, it must go to
someone else who will use it well and faithfully'.” A pause, then,
“it's been that way for a long time, at least to a certain degree –
but the last ten years have made that type of thinking a
near-total fixture in those people's minds.”

“How?” asked Anna. “Is it because of those over them?”

“Much more than merely blue-dressed thugs beating on them when and
where possible,” said the soft voice. “Anyone over there who
doesn't think like that to an extreme degree tends to not live
very long under those conditions.” A pause, then, “ask
Dennis how he felt when he was threatened with having his
food 'cut off'.”

“Horrible,” I murmured. The recollection was so strong I had to
put down my pencil, and absent-mindedly put my hand upon the surface
of the paper. “He – no, both of them – constantly
complained that I ate far too much, and while my mother merely cursed
at me, my stepfather was inclined to set out for me what he
thought to be a fit amount – which would have caused me to starve
to death had he actually done that for any real amount of time,
given the work demanded of me then.” A pause as I recalled the
demands made upon me and my 'failure' to meet them, then, “I still
felt as if everything I ate while I lived under his thumb was
stolen from his personal stock of, uh, plunder, and my
mother wasn't much better after she left him – both for attitude
and for 'plunder'.”

“Those would be witches from an old tale,” said Sarah, “and
not common witches, but especially evil ones.”

“N-no, Sarah,” said Anna as she came shakily to a sitting
position and began to actually look at what was in the box. The
whole thing was still faintly hazed with bluish mist; an occasional
'lightning bolt' erupted from within, but it wasn't 'crawling' with
power like before. I knew that to be the seeming, however; those
things entrusted to me hid that portion of their nature well.
Anna had more to say.

“That's like these awful things that some call C-calenders – the
ones done before the flood, not those done recently, where they not
merely told of the days and their number, but they caused the days to
be as per the witches' inclination, so that either one became a
true-witch, one fully as evil and powerful as those issuing such
matters, or one died for their pleasure – and those people sound
enough like preflood true-witches for me to wish them both dead and
where they belong.”

“They will end up there unless the two of them change their ways,
and that swiftly,” said the soft voice. “Neither has but
little time left to make such changes, even where they live
now, each well apart from the other – and you know what must
change first before one changes one's ways if that change is to
endure.”

“One's heart
must change,” I said, “and that change is not a self-wrought one,
but done by another, as when a person's heart is dead and cold as a
stone, it cannot change of itself. Someone else must change
it and make it live again, and then that someone else must
guide it into the right path so that it can change one's
ways.”

“That is what
happens,” said Sarah. “It happened to me, and I suspect it
happens to most...” Sarah looked at me, then, “it doesn't happen
there like it does here, does it?”

“Not usually, as
far as I know,” I murmured, “and I doubt much it routinely
happens as it did with me, even if I have read of it happening
that way in some cases.”

“Is that why you
spoke of that man being drafted?” asked Sarah. “Is that
what happened to you?”

I nodded, this
shakily, then looked once more at the knife. I had held it all this
time, and for some reason, I set it down on the top of the chest.

It instantly
grew a thick coating of frost, and the temperature in that area
dropped so rapidly that all four of us scrambled away from that part
of the basement. Here, I saw what Hans was actually doing to the
knives in 'assembly-line' fashion, as well as what Anna was doing to
the candles, and I paused for a moment upon looking at the molds.
One had a candle slowly hardening in it, and the other was mostly hid
in a wooden bucket. I could feel the water's chill, even from
several feet away.

“These things
need fins on them, lots of short stubby ones, so they cool
faster,” I said softly. I then turned to go, as I had drawings and
other matters to attend to, but when Sarah screeched, I turned once
more, so that I was looking again at the candle molds.

“Wh-what did you
do?” she said, her voice trembling with fear. “What
happened to these things that they have t-these parts to them?”

“I think they
will allow more candles to be made in the same amount of time,”
said Anna, “and that being so if they are drowned in ice-water or
not.” A pause, then, “I think you might wish to make future
candle-molds in that fashion, as those buying them will want
candle-molds that permit them to make twice as many candles for each
turn of the day's glasses.” Another pause, then, “I think the
carpenters here will want to talk to Hans about the buttons they
make, as if they do them the way he is doing these knives, they'll
last longer and they'll get twice their usual.” Pause, then, “I'd
pay twice the usual for them, as I know they'd both look better and
outlast the clothes they were sewn on.”

“Is Hans
watching that thermometer?” I asked, as I once more turned to go.

“If he isn't, I
am,” said Anna. “I've had him write the numbers it runs on a
sheet of tin with an old awl, as I told him it was a good idea
to tie it to the gage-ring with some of that string you brought back
so it does not get lost.”

“Tin?” I
asked.

“It holds up
better than most paper if one wishes something to endure,”
said Anna. “Now I think I have a candle to pour, and another to
remove from its mold, and then you two need to do some more
drawings.” A pause, then Anna all but ran through the maze of
tables and went to where the firebricks were arranged on the fume
hood, and removed a pair of plates.

“More knives to
rivet, I'll bet,” I murmured, though as I went up the stairs, I
could smell drying oil in use. More, the user of said oil was really
working it into the wood, if I went by the noise of rubbing I somehow
heard. They were working
hard at rubbing the stuff into the heat-opened pores of the wood.
That much was obvious.

“How long will
those take?” I asked.

“You'll be able
to sharpen the first of them shortly,” said the soft voice, “and
Anna's rubbing them like that will make them very smooth in
your hands.” The unspoken matter: they'd work better that way and
be easier to clean.

“Just a little
file-work on the hilt to smooth over those rivets,” I said.

“I would only
worry about that if it should prove needed,” said Sarah. “I've
seen you drive rivets, and they look smoother than anything.”

Anna came up not
two minutes later with both a pair of 'finished-looking' knives, but
also, two more that needed riveting. I had the knives needing
riveting ready to 'go back' in minutes, and while she was taking them
down, I used one of the finer 'carbon' stones, wiped it carefully
with an oily rag, and then carefully 'stropped' the edges on the two
'finished' knives. The eerie shriek of the stone against the steel
was enough to make my teeth wish to hide behind the stove, but when I
looked at the edges after but a handful of strokes and saw the
rainbows glinting clear and bright off of the edges – as bright as
I had ever seen them, in fact – I gasped, “sharp enough to
shave with?”

“I think so,”
said Sarah. “Those are fit for surgery, and no mistake.”

I ran one across
my upper arm, and the hair flew as it came off to see a place
upon my skin perfectly denuded of hair. Shaving-sharp wasn't
close to how these were – and I knew then that any future 'surgical
knives' needed to be made of this or better batches of
tool-steel. My best was none-too-good for such tools as these –
and praying for them all was a requirement.

I set the knife
down, then resumed working on the drawings. I paused, put my hands
over the two finished knives, and instantly both knives grew a thick
covering of frost. I took the icy-and-growing-colder plate up and
put it where Sarah had put my knife. The two blades were
'smoking' madly as the 'solid nitrogen' covering them slowly sublimed
into gas.

“Solid
nitrogen?” I thought. “H-how?”

“That's a true
'cryogenic' treatment those blades are receiving,” said the soft
voice. “Now rub those drawings you have done, and the same with
Sarah's, and you two can start finding the hidden surprises in those
rocket-boxes.”

I did so
forthwith, and when Sarah came over, I began rubbing hers. She'd
been less distracted or a faster artist, as she'd drawn not merely
the vest for front, back, and profile – this was obviously right;
she did this for a living, and hence knew clothing especially
well – but also a number of other matters. I then knew our
drawings had merely begun, as almost everything in the rocket-boxes
would need drawing.

“Too bulky to
take, too strange to show most people, and then...”

“Wait before you
say much more, as some of what is in there will prove useful
for the trip,” said the soft voice. “Otherwise, you're right –
most of it will need drawing, and then hiding the boxes in the corner
next to your workbench.”

More steps came up
the stairs, this with Anna having two plates, one in each hand. I
had obvious knives to work on, and when I'd finished them, I noted
Anna looking at the other knives, each of them frost-covered still.

“I know what
that does,” said Anna. “I'll bet they needed no rubbing
to get the dirt out of them, as you melting the metal that way lets
all of their dirt come out.”

“No, not all
of it,” I said. I was thinking of 'vacuum arc remelting' and
similar processes used to produce truly 'good' steel and other
materials where I came from when I said this.

“While you are
right,” said the soft voice, “that would be a far greater issue
if someone else had done them.” Pause, then, “when you
prayed for them as you did, that drove out the remaining
impurities and did some other things to them in addition to that
cryogenic treatment.”

“What would
these remaining impurities be?” asked Sarah.

“As them to
analyze some of your blades, dear,” said the soft voice. “Your
sword would be a good example, and so would those knives.” Pause,
then, “using that alloy for swords will save you” – here, I was
being spoken to – “considerable time and give a better
product.”

“Best make
Georg's corn knife out of it, then,” I said, as I pictured a
peculiar-shaped blade. “I have no idea how he's going to take to
that type of a corn knife, though.”

What I had in mind
for Georg's 'corn knife' was a species of blade I had read about and
seen pictures of, but had never handled one or seen an authentic one
up close. I'd read about how they worked, though, and giving Georg
true 'sword' performance in a 'small' package sounded like a good
idea.

“I'd best not
name one of those things,” I muttered. “It'd probably either be
a curse, or thought of as a curse – and I wonder just how people
will take Georg having one?”

“If this is a
common corn-knife, then he'll just be thought a bit strange until the
rumors get out,” said Sarah. “I take it you wish him to have
something other than the usual?”

“I
do,” I said, as I swiftly drew the sweeping curves of this
particular blade. Long ago in the past of my home-world, this blade
was called by some the kopis, and by others of similar
antiquity, the falcatta, but in my day, those most-famous
instances of this knife or sword had a most-special name, and in
trying to speak it in this language, it came out as if it were
spelled with runes: kukhri.

“And I am not
putting that weird notch in this one, as that's a bad
stress-concentrator and the thing will break there and leave
him weaponless,” I thought, as I wiped my hand over the drawing.
The result was startling, to say the least as the drawing more or
less became a full-color picture of what I had envisioned in my mind,
and I gasped, “I hope witches don't use these
things.”

“They wish
they could, but they cannot get any,” said the soft voice. “The
black book mentions that style of sword, but when you
eliminated that little notch and all the other things you did so as
to make it truly a weapon, you removed all of its
fetish-value – and made it a better weapon in the process.”

“M-monsters?”
I asked, as I put some 'lettering' on the drawing and rubbed it
gently. The lettering became far neater and also grew in length and
in its detail, with arrows pointing to the various details indicated.

“They had
trouble making those, but those who had proved examples found
them to be altogether suitable for such situations where they were
the only ones left standing upon the field of battle.” A
pause, then, “and those weapons put meaning to the words
used by witches that are translated into fear and terror.”

“Silent,” I
murmured, as I put my ledger down and walked to where I had put the
first of the rocket boxes. The feel of the thing in my hands now
was something of a matter for marveling. I then thought to ask about
the wood-treatment and the knives themselves.

“Wait until that
'frost' is gone and look at them,” said the soft voice. “You'll
be very surprised at how they look.”

“Very
s-surprised?” I asked.

“Not merely very
smooth, but very hard and scratch-resistant,” said the soft
voice. “Anna's rubbing those as she does with drying oil after
twice-dipping the wood does not merely harden it considerably, but it
also brings out the grain of blackwood.”

“I suspect those
knives will be coveted greatly, and that not merely because you made
them,” said Sarah. “I suspect that you'll need to make your own
oven for cooking wood pieces, and what Hans is doing now you'll need
to improve upon as you can.”

“Uh, why?” I
asked. “Do I just need to wait and see?”

“I'd do that
when you can,” said Anna, as she brought up another two plates of
knives. “These are the last ones to need riveting of that set of
eight, but I suspect we can cook wood pieces easy enough, unless they
are of uncommon size.”

“Uncommon
s-size?” I asked, as I set the rocket-box on the table. I wasn't
overly worried about dirt, not that the boxes had any; I suspected
the table would need transport to the house proper, and then 'rebuilt
entire', as it would be much faster to do that than merely
'clean and patch' the thing. Besides, it was currently cramped for
four people, and an extra foot of length and six inches of width
wouldn't hurt.

“Like the table
here,” said Anna, as I took both plates to my workbench and began
assembling the knives; and once done with them, I knew it was time.
I set the plates at the south end of the table, felt around the
rocket-box, and then popped its latches.

“Oh, my,” I
gasped, at seeing a profusion of tightly-packed radio parts.
“Not a bit of wasted space in this thing.”

I began to remove
various parts, all of them slightly 'dirty', and as I handed an
obvious three-section variable capacitor to Sarah – it had an
unusual shape, such that I could easily see the thing going in a
radio the size of the one we had – she asked, “what is
this thing?”

“A variable
capacitor, dear,” I said. “Just do what you can to draw it and
these other things... Oh, my! What are these things?”

I had found a
sizable package of what looked like unusually hefty metal-film
resistors, each one over an inch long in the body and an easy half
inch in diameter, with the whole 'encapsulated' in epoxy and bright
silvery-tinned ribbon leads over two inches long out of each
end.

“That's what
they are, even if the color code isn't precisely what you recall,”
said the soft voice. “The ones like them to be had overseas are
not merely much better, but are actually labeled as to their
precise measured value.”

“Labeled?” I
asked.

“Much like
high-precision resistors where you came from,” said the soft voice.
“More, unlike those, these are not merely not
'spiral-wound', but they took some truly unusual steps to prevent
them from acting like 'inductors' – like those leads being as they
are.”

“Unusual steps?”
I asked. “Uh, why?”

“There are
certain pieces of equipment in common use overseas that uses vacuum
tubes, for obvious reasons,” said the soft voice. “While they do
have high-frequency-capable semiconductors – ones that genuinely
work well at those frequencies – that particular material
isn't liked much at all by its users.”

“Uh, why?” I
asked.

“Think,” said
the soft voice. “You tried some once. They were composed of a
peculiar 'alloy'.”

“G-gallium
arsenide?” I asked. This was unspoken.

“Similar as to
trickiness, and a whole new world of danger,” said the soft
voice. “Common semiconductors here are bad enough.” A pause,
then, “that stuff is worse, and not a little worse.”

“I might know
what it is, then,” said Sarah. “It was said that some machines
used by witches could not merely think, but also that they were
especially treacherous, more so than the worst type of Death Adder
recorded in the Annals of the fourth kingdom.”

“Treacherous?”
I asked. This time it was audible.

“Be glad they've
learned how to protect that stuff in those pieces of equipment that
use it, as it makes blasting gelatin seem a feeble joke for
power should it be treated 'wrongly'.” said the soft voice. “They
say Magraat is juggling with death-balls when they must work
with equipment using it – and they avoid using such
equipment when and where they possibly can.”

“Death-balls?”

“Those were
awful,” said Sarah. “Begin-quote: 'they were as snow for color,
and of a size needing two hands to both hold and toss, and when one
removed the rod that kept the thing in check, one prayed with all
one's might that the spirit of the thing would stay its anger
long enough to use it'. Finish-quote.”

“Were those
things cursed?” I asked, as I began to remove more radio parts. I
was thinking that most of these would need bagging, as whoever had
packed this box did so with the goal of both maximum packing density
and protecting the contents from damp and destruction.

“No, save by
poor manufacturing processes and a near-complete lack of development
time,” said the soft voice. “Recall how they tried different
designs of grenades, and always went back to the steadily-improving
'pear'?” A pause, then, “those devices were some of those
'alternate' designs, and after a large number of soldiers were
scattered by them, the talk went, 'it is best to leave those things
be and carry more of the usual ones if one is to encounter large
masses of witches'.”

“What did they
call them?” asked Sarah.

“Why, they
called them grenades,” said the soft voice, “even if their
pronunciation was more than a little 'strange'.”

“Strange?” I
asked.

“The term
'grenade' came from an intercept,” said the soft voice, “but as
usual, front-line soldiers came up with their own names for them, and
the most commonplace one was pronounced 'Gree-nade' – with
the first syllable emphasized, as is the usual for the language
you're currently speaking.”

It was all I could
do to not laugh out loud, as the idea of calling such a lethal device
that silly of a name made for a crazy sense of humor – as in 'one
has to be crazy to stay here' and 'the crazy ones never die. The
sane ones die in droves'. That last thought made for a strange
association, one involving a most-capable soldier who throve
in battle and was a natural-born leader of men. I could not make up
my mind as to his name, especially as I could think of at least two
people who fit that description – one of them real, and the other,
fictional – or so he was described. I did recall one thing: both
of the chief people fitting that description had names beginning with
the letter 'E' – and both names, or forms of them, weren't at all
rare here.

“So
I think we'd best toss plenty of gree-nades at those
blue-suited thugs, then,” I murmured, as I pulled out a rag-wrapped
vacuum tube. This one made for strange memories, as it was just
like a somewhat shrunken acorn tube, save where it improved upon
those devices like it of my recollection.

This device had a
dark gray ceramic ring supporting the pins, each of the seven pins
being an easy eighth of an inch in thickness and just over a quarter
inch in length. The dark tarnish that wiped off with a brief rubbing
spoke of silver plating of the stubby pins, and the 'getter' was on
the bottom, well away from the device's active portions so as to not
'poison' them. The silvery bright nature of this bottom portion, as
well as the curled aspect of the evacuation stem that remained, was a
remarkable matter for a device so old, and when I looked inside to
see not merely the three grid structures, but also the blackened
finned plate and an obvious ribbon filament, much as if the
thing sucked amperes of filament current, I asked, “how much
filament current does this thing draw?”

“Less than those
tubes you used in that one small radio,” said the soft
voice, “and unlike those tubes, this type of filament
actually glows a dull red color when it's working.” A pause, then,
“the usual was to adjust until one could just see the
filament glowing in a darkened room, then further adjustments were a
matter of fine-tuning the filament rheostat as the batteries became
discharged or atmospheric changes mandated increased emission and
gain.”

“Just like what
I did,” I murmured. “Four stages?”

“That radio is a
much hotter device than anything you used of its type,” said
the soft voice. “Only a few radios where you came from rivaled it
for sensitivity, and only a few types ever made here beat it for
sheer performance when properly adjusted.”

“A separate cart
for the batteries,” I muttered. “Thing probably weighed a lot.”

“Precisely the
point with this radio,” said the soft voice. “It may be
significantly more difficult to use, but it is small enough to
carry readily, and it is sparing of power, and yet it performs
very well, especially for certain types of signals – signals
that were most-commonplace among Vrijlaand combat teams.”

“C-code?” I
asked. “On-off keying of the transmitter? Small transmitters?”

“Got it in one
for all of those things,” said the soft voice. “Only those big
heavy hot-running receivers worked better than a well-constructed
'screecher', and them, not by much, not if that 'screecher' was as
well-debugged as the one you have.”

“Screecher?”
asked Sarah. “Why does it s-screech?”

“The
regeneration control,” I said. “Push it too far and it will, uh,
screech like a shot marmot.” I paused, then said, “that one of
mine would screech bad if I turned up the screen voltage pot
too much.”

“Those were with
those tubes,” said the soft voice. “This one has a
double-tuned RF amplifier, a hot regenerative detector with
two stages of added tuning, and two stages of choke-loaded
audio amplification, with an output transformer to give best matching
to a stolen field-telephone earpiece – which was a lot more
sensitive than what you used for that small radio.” A pause, then,
“there's enough in that box to not merely construct two more
receivers like the one you have, but also its latest schematic –
and a pair of 'output tubes' stolen from that one expert witch's
'hoard' when he died.”

“Output tubes?”
I asked. “What do they l-look...”

I had just
unwrapped a larger acorn tube, this nearly half an inch larger
in all of its dimensions, and its heavily-finned graphite plate
suggested it was intended to deal with a non-trivial amount of plate
current. I wondered just what its normal purpose was, as it looked
fit for a small transmitter.

“Those were
usually used for audio, but as more than one person learned in the
green areas, that design had substantial gain at much higher
frequencies, so much so that they worked well for clandestine
transmitters.”

“And his use?”

“An audio
amplifier, one that needed a pair of such tubes for its output
stage,” said the soft voice. “He had a 'sixteen-stack' speaker
array, and that amplifier could 'rattle the walls' when he was of a
mind to turn it up.”

“R-rattle the
walls?” I gasped. “How much can this thing handle?”

For some odd
reason, the tube suddenly morphed into another device, this also a
tube, but its shape and size were utterly different. While the form
this new tube had was quite vague, I could clearly read the numbers,
and seeing '6146' on the filmy form made for an involuntary gasp.

“I had some of
those things,” I gasped. “Fifty watts output per tube, and no
trouble at all!”

“Less than that
with those, unless you wished them to have a very short life,” said
the soft voice. “Still, a pair in push-pull made for a most-potent
transmitter output stage, and their quick-warm-up and modest filament
requirements made for a most-efficient transmitter if one needed to
stay in touch while on the move.” A pause, then, “that witch had
some fairly efficient speakers to go with his amplifier, so he could
run his tubes conservatively and still deafen people quite readily.”

“They were
likely to be hard to get,” said Sarah. “I think I can draw those
things, even if I have no idea as to what they are.”

I had to answer a
lot of questions just the same as I pulled out the parts out of the
boxes and commented upon them, and while none of these devices showed
'undue age' or 'coming unglued', I suspected that current-issue
equivalents across the sea would be better suited to our needs
regarding radio construction. More, while 'screechers' were simple
to build, they could be very tricky to operate, and I
suspected to no small degree I could build a non-screeching
radio of a size suitable for ready packing that wasn't a 'big
grunter' for power or heft.

“You left out
one matter of chief importance,” said the soft voice. “Most
people in the five kingdoms will not tolerate a radio that
reminds them of swine when it is maladjusted.”

“Now that
is the truth,” said Sarah. “I might, as I've made enough
swine-like noises while practicing music, and I suspect Anna has
also, but not many people play those things.”

“Those
t-things?” I asked.

“A violin,”
said Sarah. “Anna has hers here, and Hans has something worse yet,
even if he can play well compared to most who do not travel
with orchestras.”

“W-well?” I
asked.

“He does not
have much time for practice,” said Sarah, “but I have
heard him play, and he can keep up with Anna when she's
playing.” A pause, then, “that's about what's needed if you're
going to play in an orchestra, or if you should need to tramp and
play for your bread.”

“Seems I'm the
only person who doesn't play something in here,” I muttered. “I
made one of those things once, and a good player told me it
was a good one, but all I could get out of it was noise, no
matter what I tried.”

“What was it?”
asked Sarah, as I continued emptying the box. I suspected everything
in here needed drawings, and that doubly so if we were going to get
parts so as to make our radios. I could tell that much: we
would need to make radios, make them in numbers, and more, unlike
many of those devices called radios where I came from, we'd
need to make truly good ones, ones fully as capable as
anything I'd ever used.

“For general
use, no,” said the soft voice, “even if you are altogether
correct about making good radios for general use – and by
good, I mean 'as good as what you used when you had
time to indulge in Amateur Radio'.” A pause, then, “you'll need
to make some military radios also, and those will need
to be the very best you can possibly do, even if they take up
an entire rack for each set and need a dedicated generator and
multiple power supplies to run them properly, and lengthy operator
training so as to get the best possible performance out of a complex
and finicky device.” Another pause, then, “and your ability to
play instruments is in its infancy here.”

“What does that
mean?” asked Sarah. “Does he need teaching?”

I wanted to ask,
“can I play something?”

“You can, and
you will, even if you will confound nearly all of the people who hear
you,” said the soft voice, “and more, just what you will prove
able to play.” A pause, then, “just wait. You'll be genuinely
astonished – if not scared out of your mind.”

“Why, will he
blow horns?” asked Sarah. I could tell she was joking – a
little. She wasn't entirely joking, though.

“Were they
available and the need present for him to do so, yes, he could –
and do so well,” said the soft voice. “You'll be even
more surprised than him when he starts playing.”

“Ah, now I
wonder,” said Hans as he came up to my side with two more 'dipped'
knives. “The others of these are cooking in that oven, so they
should be done soon.” A pause, then, “now, are you going to blow
horns, or do otherwise?”

“We were told he
could do that, but I'm not sure where to find some,” said Sarah,
“and now is not the time for digging up what you have, or what Anna
has either – even if they both are fit for orchestras.”

“There is a
clavier hid somewhere in the house-proper,” said Hans, “and I am
glad that man Gabriel does not know of it, as he would do no work at
all otherwise.”

“Clavier?” I
asked.

“He may be close
to worthless for many things,” said Sarah, “but he is not
worthless when it comes to playing one of those, especially should it
be a great clavier in good tune.”

“You have heard
him play?” asked Hans. I had just waved my hand over the knives
after setting them next to the others, and the chill to my back as I
turned spoke of them getting 'the cryogenic treatment'. I then had
an intimation: cryogenic treatment helped greatly where I came from.
Here, it helped a good deal more, unless I was all wet.

“Yes, twice,”
said Sarah, “and neither instrument was a good one.” A pause,
then, “no matter. He had no business going to anywhere other than
the west school, as that's the only one of those places that teaches
any music at all.”

“The other
schools think it a waste of time, correct?” I asked, as I continued
removing things from the rocket-box. One small bag clinked oddly,
and when I untied it, a number of green, yellow, gold, blue, and red
'rings' came out. Their clinking aspect, as well as their
'hardness', made me wonder as to what they were, at least until a
scrap of paper, this waxed and writ in a script fully as bad as my
handwriting, caused me to look closer at it. After a second of
concentration, the scrawled mess rearranged itself into the
words: 'dust-cores, for inductors'. It remained legible long enough
for me to understand, and then the image faded from the surface of
the paper to become the former inky mess.

“Now those
things there look like fry-breads,” said Hans. “Best keep them
clear of Karl, as he may try eating those things.”

“That s-small?”
I asked.

“Those things
vary some as to size,” said Hans. He picked one up, this item over
an inch in diameter. Most of these things were that size, when not
larger yet, with some nearly an inch and a half across and thick
enough to pass for a skimpy tooth-busting doughnut. “A lot
of them are this size, and...” Hans was sniffing a red one, and
said, “no, this one is old and stale, as it should smell a bit like
Kuchen and give some when you pinch it – and this one smells like a
dust-wad and is hard as a rock, so it will ruin your teeth if you try
biting it.”

Sarah looked at me
and shook her head, then muttered, “even I know when something
isn't a fry-bread, Hans – and those are not
fry-breads.” A pause, then, “I do not know what they are,
but I will keep them clear of Karl, as he's likely to listen to his
tongue before anything else should he see one.”

“Yes, and I was
listening good to mine, too,” said Hans. “Anna has had to keep
me clear of those people selling those things in that market town, as
I am not much better than Karl is about hot fresh fry-breads,
especially if they have nice colored glaze on them like those do.”

“Color-coded,”
I muttered. “I know what those things are, 'cause I've used
them before lots of times, and that one little radio
used them. Now is there a formula for calculating their inductance,
and a chart that shows their best 'range' of use, the region where
they achieve maximum 'Q'? I had those for the ones I recall, even if
I don't remember much in the way of just what the formulas were –
and these would probably be different anyway.”

“Yes, but not in
that box,” said the soft voice. “You'll have no
trouble getting both the documentation and large samples of
such 'fry-breads' overseas – and Hans has understated the case
regarding how he feels about such pastries.”

“These things
are not pastries, Hans,” I muttered. “You eat one of
these things and you'll be in the privy worse than if you got into
some strong drink loaded with rust.”

My statement
'spooked' Hans so badly that he set the toroid down as if it were
drippy mining dynamite gone brown and purple, and he then hot-footed
his way down the stairs. I could tell Anna was most inclined to give
him a piece of her mind – and her voice, though she was speaking to
him about not wasting time, was so utterly unlike the Anna of
recollection that I marveled.

“She does not
mince her words,” said Sarah solemnly as she resumed drawing, “and
more, she sounds more like you might were we in a dangerous
situation, one where every tick of an expensive clock needed to count
toward something that was needed.”

“Do I, uh, yell
then?” The quiet, save beyond the sounds of labor, that now came
from downstairs was even more impressive.

“I've only heard
you yell a handful of times, and each time, I associate it with
something horrible,” said Sarah. “You yelled at that dragoon
while you were stopping its final charge, you yelled at Gabriel when
he was plotting to deny the Abbey to our use and keep it for the
witches, and I think you might have yelled in that deep-hole.”
Pause, then, “otherwise, you're about the quietest person I've ever
heard, so if you raise your voice, even a little, people had
best listen, and listen well.”

“Or?” I asked.

“Someone is
going to die,” said Sarah. “I can tell that much.
Someone either will die, or they will wish they had gone to hell to
escape you – and no, no one on this planet has seen more than the
smell of your 'wrath'.”

I could plainly
hear quotes about that last word, and I asked, “Rachel?”

“I plan on
asking her, as I suspect she knows much of such matters,” said
Sarah. “Of matters across the sea, perhaps, if she has been shown
or is shown them, but I doubt she needs to be shown much to tell us
about that which she has lived – and talk has it she lived
in the second kingdom house proper for two ten years and more, and
most of that as no ordinary common.”

“Closer to a
deep-slave wearing a trusty-cap, and she never thought once about
turning witch, you mean,” I said, as I finally emptied the box. I
then sat down and began drawing, this with a sense of building 'fury'
or whatever one might feel at seeing what, in many aspects, were
'interesting antiques' of limited practical use.

What I was
drawing, on the other hand, was something so strange – and so
'potent-seeming' – that my hair seemed to once more be elongating
and raising up into the wind as if driven by potent static, and my
hands – I was drawing with both hands now, the ledger upon the
table and the pages flipping rapidly – was such that a hush
descended. Finally, spent, I was finished, and as I staggered over
toward my cup where it lay among plates of slowly subliming
'nitrogen', I noted first the cup's chill, then the chill of no less
than three jugs of beer. I had a question as I picked up one
of these sweating cold things and my cup – or rather, two
questions.

The first: “what
did I just do?”

And, the second:
“could this beer become what Sarah actually had those times
she was sick in the second kingdom, and could we have those things
that came with it?”

I set the beer
down, even as a hazy aroma seemed to gather itself in the slightly
chilly stuffiness of the room, and everything faded unto
blackness.